The Beautiful and Sublime

It’s spring break! I decided after a very eventful morning to get started on spring cleaning. It will definitely take all week. In my cleaning I re-discovered a notebook of class notes that is interspersed with personal reflections from last semester. One stuck out to me as particularly beautiful, now after this morning’s sixth injection of hormones. The other shocked me as a permanent record of just how much pain I was in last semester.

Consider this a diptych of my emotional landscape last winter: the Beautiful and Sublime. In contrast to recent writings it shows a writer who was just gaining his voice. It is beautiful in its honesty and as of yet unpublished because of it. The truths I allude to and the courage hiding beneath the words make me smile. It’s always a long road but with my current and cracking writer’s voice under my command, I can see how far I’ve come.

27 November

I wish I had started hormones like…yesterday. While time shortens between now and my booked February 4th endocrinology appointment, I have been presented with several options to get started sooner. How? By making phone calls. Have I made them? No. I thought for awhile that the three months between me and my appointment were a natural gestation period, a cosmic suggestion to keep thinking about this.


Every time I look at my round face in the mirror I stroke my soft blond facial hair as if the stimulation will make it transform into a philosopher’s beard. When I put on my jeans in the morning I look away to avoid seeing the curving flesh that refuses to hide behind the straight cut of the fabric. I get frustrated when I notice this. I am scared when other people notice this.

But I am yet to be defeated.

Monday I will make those phone calls to doctors, to potential rides, and I will get a plan in action. I’ve done the hard part in the months of therapy and resolve gathering. It’s time to take that leap of faith I keep talking about. It’s time to fly.

30 December – This started as a slam and ended unfinished. The last two lines are written in revision.



Love is abundant, you say.


I say it too – to my tear-stained face

that I see in the mirror

and hold in my palms.

The whole point of this

-this polyamorous relationship-

is to share our love and experience the love of others.

Why does it hurt so much?


I have seen two people cry over this in one week. In the grand scheme of things I know that’s nothing.


But I – I am Mr. “Wants to meet your parents

and take you to the most precious places I know

because what we have is so special and unlike any other.”

It’s different for me.


You see, I’m Mr. “Throws his words around”,

Mr. “Chivalrous, if it weren’t so sexist,

old-fashioned to the last thread of my favorite cardigan

that covers these shoulders to cry on

because I

have been there before.”


I give great hugs.

I need a hug.


I’m suppose to be strong

because I decided I was going to be

for us.

I would search my heart

and find the power

to see beyond socially constructed relationship models.


At the beginning of this

I called it radical for the sake of being radical.

I don’t think that’s right.

But then again, what is?


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